Chapter 15: The Unannounced Visit
The lemongrass incense had burned down to a grey worm of ash. Aidan was sprawled on the couch, a textbook on fractal geometry open but unread on his chest, listening to the syncopated thud of a maw lam track from a neighbor’s radio. The balcony door was open, the neon haze of the city bleeding into the room.
He didn’t hear the key in the lock. He only heard the soft click, the sigh of the door swinging open, and then she was there.
Prae stood silhouetted against the hallway light, her bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t call out a greeting. She didn’t smile. She just closed the door behind her, the lock engaging with a final, quiet snick. Her eyes found him in the gloom.
“Hey,” he said, sitting up, the book sliding to the floor. “You’re early. I thought you had the late shift.”
She didn’t answer. She dropped her bag by the door and walked towards him, her movements deliberate, her sandals whispering against the bamboo. The playful saunter was gone. This was something else—a slow, gathering intensity that pulled the air from the room.
“Prae?”
She reached him. Up close, he could see the tight set of her jaw, the dark focus in her eyes. She placed a hand flat on his chest and pushed, gently but firmly, until his back was against the wall beside the couch. The plaster was cool through his thin shirt.
“You got an invitation,” she said, her voice low. It wasn’t a question.
The image of the tattooed back flashed in his mind. “Vit sent a card. For a gallery.”
“And a message. A photo.”
He blinked. “How did you—”
“You think I don’t hear things?” A faint, humorless twist touched her lips. “The woman is an artist’s model. Her name is Mali. Vit has been… preparing her. For you.” She said the last three words as if they were a distasteful medicine on her tongue. Her hand was still on his chest, holding him in place. “Our deal was for a while, na? This feels like a very short while.”
“I didn’t say I was going.”
“You didn’t delete the photo.” Her eyes searched his, and he knew she saw the truth there. The hesitation. The terrible, magnetic curiosity. Her other hand came up, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “You are here with me. You are here.”
Then her mouth was on his, but it was nothing like the tender kiss from the clinic day. This was a claim. It was hungry, possessive, and angry. Her tongue pushed past his lips, demanding a response. He gave it, his hands coming up to grasp her hips, pulling her hard against him. He could feel the rapid drumbeat of her heart through their clothes.
She broke the kiss, breathing ragged. “No,” she muttered, and her hands went to the waistband of his shorts, yanking them and his boxers down in one rough motion. His cock, already hardening under her assault, sprang free. She looked down at it, her expression unreadable. “Mine,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
She didn’t bother undressing fully. She just hiked her little sundress up around her waist, revealed she wore nothing underneath, and guided him to her entrance. She was wet, but tight with tension. She sank onto him in one fierce, downward motion, sheathing him completely inside her with a sharp gasp that was part pain, part triumph.
“Fuck,” he grunted, his head thudding back against the wall. Her tight cunt clenched around him like a fist.
She began to move, setting a brutal, driving rhythm, her nails digging into his shoulders. This wasn’t pleasure for its own sake. This was a exorcism. A reassertion. Every snap of her hips was a word: Here. This. Now. Her eyes were locked on his, daring him to look away, to think of someone else. The slick, urgent sounds of their coupling filled the apartment, louder than the distant city hum.
He gripped her ass, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, helping her ride him, meeting her thrust for thrust. The desperation was contagious. It was a fight where they were both trying to win the same thing. He felt his climax building, a coil of heat in his gut. “Prae,” he warned.
“Yes,” she hissed, her rhythm becoming erratic. “Do it. Right now. Mark it.”
With a ragged groan, he obeyed, pulsing deep inside her, his release hot and endless. The sensation tipped her over the edge; she cried out, a short, sharp sound, and her inner muscles milked him violently, drawing every last drop from him. She collapsed against him, forehead on his shoulder, both of them slick with sweat, pinned between the wall and the precipice they’d just hurled themselves over.
They stayed like that, joined, breathing in shattered tandem. The neighbor’s radio had changed to a sugary pop song.
Eventually, she slid off him, her dress falling back into place. She disappeared into the bathroom. He heard water running. He pulled his clothes up, his legs unsteady. He sat heavily on the couch.
She returned, face washed, hair re-tied. She looked young and tired. She came over and sat beside him, not touching, staring at the glow of the balcony.
“I want to go with you,” she said finally, her voice soft.
“To the gallery?”
“To the gallery. To see this… Mali.” She turned to look at him, her boldness returning, tempered now by a layer of something vulnerable. “You are a curious man, Aidan. I know this. If I lock you in this room, you will only think of the door. So we open it together. But I walk through it with you.”
He understood. It wasn’t just supervision. It was a negotiation. A new term for their ‘while.’ His curiosity wouldn’t vanish, but neither would she.
“Okay,” he said.
“Promise me. You do not go without me.”
“I promise.”
She nodded, seemingly satisfied. She curled into his side, her earlier ferocity dissipated into exhaustion. Within minutes, her breathing deepened into sleep.
Aidan stayed awake, looking at the dark rectangle of the balcony. The invitation was still in the drawer. The photo was still on his phone. But now they were shared secrets. The bubble had not popped; it had stretched, becoming thinner, more transparent, more vulnerable to the world outside. He held the sleeping woman closer, listening to the city that never slept, wondering what exactly waited for them in Vit’s curated world of tradition and desire.